The Beginning of the End
by atliere
Summary: Grief is not a recommended case for Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft's POV. Post A Game of Shadows.


**Spoilers for Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows.**

From Mycroft s point of view, the beginning of Sherlock s downward spiral concerning the death of Irene. That is, assuming Sherlock takes refuge at his home while John and Mary actually have their honeymoon.

When I first took on the task of sheltering Shirley after the Moriarty Scandal, I was not expecting this sort of behavior. He returned to London momentarily to retrieve several of his belongings, a parcel, a curious looking suit, a valise full of clothing and several other letters, files, his violin, and a photograph. I never penned my brother for being a material man, however, I ensured him that I would not be clothing him myself. He soundly agreed, taking the opportunity to denounce my taste in fashion before his leave.

While he wasn t exactly the brutish type around myself and mother, all on his own, he seems to command the shadows of his room to fit his mood. You could walk in at your leisure, and find the room as gay as it possibly could be, he d be completely lit up like a Douglas Fir at Christmastime, a bottle of brandy in his fist and the desk, covered with files, clippings of various papers, askew from his drunken stagger. While he usually had more decorum in the public, Sherlock lets it all out when his door is closed.

And decidedly, locked, much to my dismay.

It isn t until he s run to the apothecary to procure his usual fare (so far as Watson has informed me) that he tightens up a bit, his stagger gone and his haughty, educated demeanor returns. But it is when he mixes the two; the brandy and the barbituates, the schnapps and the ketamine-ah, that is when the ruckus begins.

My brother s only tantrums as I can remember were at a very young age, for reason I can t immediately recall. However, tantrums as a grown man, in any grown man, must be warranted. There must be some sort of suitable reason involved, whether it s being hit across the back of the head with a glass bottle, or having looked a funny way at another woman. However. It takes a number to aggravate, or even worse, cross Shirley, and whoever had done it, did a fine job of it, and to my wallpaper, carpet, and furniture as well.

I awoke from the ruckus one evening, where he astutely apologized, then the next evening, noticed he was going without eating. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless paired with his beastly drinking and noise come 3 in the morning. It lasted for only a night or two afterwards, the yelling, the overturning of his tables, the sliding of luxury tablecloths (and their fragile contents) on the floor. I finally decided on giving him the pewter dishes, as he had damaged so many in his rage, but, it quelled.

The fourth night rolled round, the winter chill finally taking it s toll on his storms of rage, and I noticed things were much quieter that evening, so, I went to take a look. The door was chain-locked from the inside, so I was privledged to only a crack of visibility (and in my own guest room no less!). There he sat in his morose state, leg slung carelessly over the arm of an upholstered chair, violin in one hand, bow in the other. An empty bottle somewhere behind it. At first, it seemed he was carelessly plucking at the strings without care, as a means to distract his currently, vacant mind (from what I could gather of his expression, it was vacant indeed.)

Now, Sherlock doesn t have the means for affection, nor does he harbor grudges, feelings, vendettas. Well, I m sure he does, but, they don t affect him. Never have they, a case was a case, a game was a game, and for a winner, there was always a loser. His mind was for exercise, not companionship (other than Watson s) nor love. Sherlock is a cold man, as was he a cold child. However.

It wasn t until I laid my eyes on the windowsill, that I doubted this belief that I had held steady for the most of my life. A portrait lay open on the sill, candlewax seeping into the polished wood from a lit wick behind it. A fresh faced woman smiled back through it candidly, and the realization dawned as he drew his first, sombering note from the instrument on his shoulder.

My brother was grieving.

Clearly, in his most recent game, the loser took all, and the winner gained nothing. And while Sherlock did not ever accept payment for his services, and he sees the risk he takes (and watches it fly by him as well, along with his caution, to the wind!), this particular loss, he did not see coming. He did not ante this onto the table. Sherlock only makes safe bets (thus, his relationship with John) and it seems as though he d been robbed of this one. Another drawling note of solitude is wretched from the bow across the strings, and I shut the door for the night.

The next morning s coffee isn t so subtle.

"Heard you tuning your violin last night, bothering to wake the whole house."

He nodded in tempered silence. Oh, my heart ached for his loss. You could see it in his stoney face.

"What is it?" as I sipped my coffee.

He looks at me with a confused regard. Playing dumb was not his forte, but it isn t sarcastic either. He doesn t know how to explain it, this foriegn feeling he s having.

Quirking his lips up, making a vast contrast to his baggy eyes and his overall gaunt face, he turns to head back to his room with only a few words to spare.

"I missed a date."


End file.
